


It's Complicated

by leupagus



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: F/M, M/M, Technology
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-22
Updated: 2015-09-21
Packaged: 2018-04-22 20:33:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4849583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leupagus/pseuds/leupagus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The thing that’s hard to remember about Nightingale is that he’s only <i>sort of</i> lived through the past seventy-plus years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Complicated

The thing that’s hard to remember about Nightingale is that he’s only _sort of_ lived through the past seventy-plus years. I reckon he stopped paying attention to the outside world about the same time he dragged himself and assorted demons (figuratively speaking, though with all the empty rooms you never know what’s lurking) back to the Folly after the war and locked himself away. Probably easier, really; when you witness the death of almost every single wizard in Britain, it’s got to leave you with a jaded view of the rest of humanity.

So there’s no knowing, when you have a conversation with him, what parts of the modern world he’s going to understand and what he just looks at you blankly about. He’s got a grasp on what computers can do, more or less, and he no longer looks suspiciously at me when I offer to TiVo the rugby match if we’re going to be out for the evening. But social media is a minefield.

“Why on Earth would anyone care what a film actor had for breakfast?” he demanded, as though I’d offended him with the very idea.

We were on stakeout, sort of; a house in Belgravia had gotten no less than fifteen complaints in the past three weeks about strange noises in the middle of the night, but every time police had come there’d been nobody home. The owners were on a round-the-world cruise and wouldn’t be back for another month, though they’d given the police permission to search the premesis and take necessary steps. Nightingale had looked far too happy when he’d announced over breakfast that we were going to stay overnight at the house to see if it was haunted.

“It is likely to be?” I’d asked, pausing mid-chew.

“Oh, yes,” he replied cheerfully. “An old house like that, bound to have been a dozen deaths or more. Of course, it could be your run of the mill pictsies or gnomes. Possibly a banshee.”

We hadn’t found anything yet, and our argument about how best to proceed (I was in favor of one of us staying awake while the other slept, while Nightingale thought the whole point was to lure the spirit out which would be difficult if one of us was awake) had devolved into a discussion about how I would manage to stay awake in the first place. “Since I recall you falling asleep during our Latin lesson the other day,” Nightingale had said with all the nonchalance of someone who’s hurt that you fell asleep while they were talking to you, but didn’t want to show it. I’d mentioned that I’d catch up on my twitter feed, and that’s where the whole actors-eating-breakfast thing started.

I put my phone back in my pocket. I had been about to show him, but maybe this required smaller steps. “That’s just an example, sir,” I said. “Lots of people have twitter accounts, not just celebrities.”

“Do _you_?” Nightingale asked, sounding almost exactly like my teacher Mrs. Harbison had when she’d asked if I was reading a book under the desk during Geometry lessons.

“Sure.”

“Well, stop that immediately,” he said. “I don’t want you broadcasting the business of the Folly to all and sundry.”

“I just use it to follow other people,” I tried, but that was another twenty minutes of explaining how you could follow someone without actually, physically following them. I kept explaining things using other things that, in turn, required an explanation. It made me quite nostalgic for that time when I had to teach him about the human digestive system.

“I still don’t see what the point is,” Nightingale grumbled, crossing his arms over his chest. It had gotten colder - real cold, not vestigia, since I could see my breath in front of my face. The house was outfitted with all the latest and greatest tech, including a state-of-the-art heating and cooling unit - which of course had been comprehensively fried by whatever had been going on here at night for the last few weeks.

“Isn’t there a spell or something that can make it warmer?” I asked. _Lux_ could - if you were very, very bad at it.

Nightingale gave me another of his Mrs. Harbison looks. “Certainly, if we wanted to let whatever spirit or fae currently in residence know who we were. I hardly like to advertise that sort of thing.”

I remembered that strange conversation I’d once had with Nicholas Wallpenny (well, they’d all been strange) about Nightingale. A ghost from the eighteenth century who’d never stepped out of Convent Garden, but still he’d somehow known all about The Nightingale and who he was. Maybe my governor didn’t like to advertise, but clearly someone had been taking out full-page adverts in the _Daily Spook_ on his behalf for the past few decades.

"Well, I don't fancy freezing to death while we wait for this thing to show up or manifest or whatever," I said. "Sir."

Either my chattering teeth wore him down, or more likely he was feeling the chill himself. "Perhaps the fireplace in the parlour is functional," he offered.

"That's good. I... don't suppose you've got a matchbox?" I knew the spell cindere, but if magic was out, I hadn't a clue how to get a fire going. I had a vague notion of newspaper screws and little twigs and things and using a magnifying glass somehow.

Nightingale looked scandalized. "Didn't you ever learn at school how to make a campfire?”

"Not all of us went to Durmstrang, sir," I pointed out. He shot me a suspicious look, but despite all my wheedling he still hadn't read any of the Harry Potter books so he couldn't prove I was being a shit. I had a feeling if he ever did get around to it, I was going to be retroactively written up a half-dozen times.

"Well, no time like the present," he said, and off we went for me to have a learning experience. I personally thought that whatever otherwordly creature was due to make an appearance tonight would likely be just as startled by a roaring fire as it would be by a bit of magic, but I kept that thought well to myself. I'm not just a pretty face - I've got brains, me.

It was a long and excruciatingly complicated process, and I almost wished the owners had been a bit more modern-minded and just installed a fake gas fireplace - although if they had, we'd still have been left shivering. At last we (well, Nightingale) got it going and we collapsed on the sofa in front of it, too cold to keep the manliness-regulation ten centimeters distance between ourselves. We stared at the fire together for a bit, the way all human beings have ever since some bright young thing five million years ago thought that burning branch outside would make for a nice centerpiece in their cave. For once, I wasn't thinking - not about the latest Little Crocodile we'd found dead, not about Lesley and where the fuck she'd fucked off to and what the fuck she was up to, not even about the case. I was just thinking - this is nice. This is good.

"So what is the point?" Nightingale asked suddenly, and I realized I'd almost fallen asleep.

"What, sir?" I asked, rubbing my face. It was warm, almost too hot, sitting this close to the fire and to Nightingale, but I didn't want to move.

"Of your--" he broke off and I turned to see him frowning, trying to remember. "Your _twitter_ ," he said, saying the word as distastefully as he usually said "Faceless Man" or "Russian Embassy." "What function does it serve?"

I considered it. "Well," I said, "I follow Tyburn."

"Lady Tyburn uses it?”

"Yep. So does Ash, although he just retweets mostly." I grinned as Nightingale looked all set to ask what “retweets” were before thinking better of it. "But Tyburn's always talking about where she is and who she's with, which comes in useful."

"How so?" Nightingale asked.

"I always know where to avoid, sir."

Nightingale laughed, his shoulder shaking against mine. This close up, I could see those grey eyes of his had a bit of blue in them, near the pupil - almost as if they'd once been vibrant and bright, but had gotten the color leeched out. I wondered if he'd looked like this the first time he'd been forty-five, seventy years ago; if those crows-feet had been as familiar to his friends back then as they were to me now.

He caught me watching, and I looked away before - I didn't know before what exactly, but I was pretty sure I wasn't ready to be on the after side of things. Whatever those things were.

Fortunately, the gremlin turned up right about then, so I didn't have to worry about it.

*

I got another stab at persuading Nightingale to join the twenty-first century a week or so later; he'd read something in the Guardian about Facebook and wanted to know what the blazes it was all about (not his words, but sometimes it's hard not retroactively making him sound like David Nevin). I tried explaining it before getting a much better idea and dragging him out to the tech cave and putting him in front of my laptop.

"Easiest way to show you, sir," I said, with a cheerful I-am-just-your-plucky-constable-sidekick smile that probably didn't fool him for a minute. "We'll make you a Facebook page."

"I hardly think that's necessary," Nightingale said, and it was almost beautiful the way he was trying not to panic. "I simply wanted to understand the appeal of these various..."

"Social media platforms," I offered. I knew I shouldn't be enjoying this, but we've all got to find our fun where we can.

The disgusted noise he made at that was something I'll treasure forever. "Indeed. Why on earth would I want to broadcast my existence?"

"This day and age, sir, it's really more suspicious if you don't," I said. It's true. My dad had a Facebook page. James and Max had made it for him, and had then gone on to make ones for my mum, two of her friends, and someone who I think is my uncle by marriage but I've never met the aunt in question. One of the first things I do these days, when we meet one of our more humanally-challenged witnesses/suspects, is check to see if they've got a Facebook or an Instagram. They almost all do. Zach's tumblr is called xxxjakefinn5evaxxx and is mostly pictures of snakes wearing hats and screeds about marijuana legalization.

Nightingale still wasn't convinced. "But what is it for?"

That was a stumper. As far as I was concerned, Facebook was mostly for reminding you about the birthdays, marriages, or other lifetime events of people you either already knew were having said events or couldn't remember at all. "You can friend Professor Postmartin," I tried. "And Dr. Walid."

Nightingale looked blank. "I'm already friends with them."

He had me there. "You can friend Father Thames," I said, "And Oxley. Which'll come in handy next time we need to talk to them."

"Father Thames has one of these Facebook platforms?"

I didn't mention that I was 99% sure Isis was running it, as well as the parody twitter account @olddadthames that tweeted a lot about various punting accidents. "Yes, sir. So does Mama Thames." I was pretty sure she was in charge of her own social media, although maybe Fleet ran the day-to-day stuff. "And Hugh Oswald finally got me the list of all your friends from the old days - we can friend all of them." It had come as a mild surprise that Hugh's little gossip mill had exchanged information primarily online, in an alt-group dating back to the early 90s. Whenever I got an email from them, I could recognize it primarily by the fact that it was probably something like [wizfitzgerald@netscape.net](mailto:wizfitzgerald@netscape.net) or [hugharbuthnot@yahoo.com](mailto:hugharbuthnot@yahoo.com). 

Nightingale sighed, then perked up a bit. "Do you suppose Molly has an account?" he asked.

That's a terrifying idea, I thought, and remembered finding Molly here in the coach house with the computer turned off in a hurry. "Maybe. You can always ask her." Searching for her online would be a bit of a trick, since Facebook requires a last name and as far as anyone knew, Molly was just Molly. I wonder who'd named her that in the first place, but the important thing was that Nightingale was now at least semi on board, so we went through the process of getting him online.

There's nothing quite so frustrating as trying to talk someone through a computer process, especially if you're at least somewhat competent and the someone you're talking through is a century-old luddite who complains endlessly about the modern keyboard layout. For the record, Nightingale does approve of the return key, but thinks the backspace encourages sloppiness. We hit our first real snag when Facebook asked for Nightingale’s birthday. “That’s a very personal question,” he sniffed.

“And it’s probably going to get you flagged if you put your real birthday,” I agreed. Then I frowned. “What does your driving license say?”

Nightingale looked shifty. “When I learned how to drive, that sort of thing had been suspended. For the war, you see.”

“You didn’t learn how to drive until you were in your forties?” Given the way Nightingale drove, it was surprising - but then he’d had seventy-five years to improve. Then the implications sank in a bit more. “So you’re telling me you don’t have a driving license.”

“Not as such,” Nightingale admitted. “But as I say, there were exceptions made during the war.”

“I’m guessing Traffic wouldn’t see it that way, sir.” I’d probably end up dragging him down to the local registry. It was like dealing with my mum’s immigration status ten years ago. “All right, so we can make something up - say sometime in the mid seventies."

He did some quick calculations and raised his eyebrows at me. “I appear to be in my early forties?” he asked. I couldn’t tell if he was offended or flattered.

"What answer is going to get me into trouble, sir?" I asked, trying to sound anxious. I muffed it by laughing out the "sir," though. Sahra has said more than once that if she ever talked to Stephanopolous the way I talk to my governor, nobody would ever find her body. Lesley had talked back too - although look where that had gotten us. But there was something endlessly entertaining about irritating Nightingale. I remember there used to be this hateful old cat who hung around my parents' flat when I was a kid - wouldn't let anyone pick it up, but you could pet it every once in a while if you gave it some food. I used to love running my hand against the fur; it would grumble, but it'd always come looking for me when it wanted attention.

"Both," Nightingale replied, sounding a lot more dangerous than the cat ever did.

I decided that focusing on the task at hand was the better part of valor. "Right. So put in a made-up birthday and we'll go to the next step."

Nightingale complained the entire way through, and was even hinting darkly that the ordeal was putting him at risk of a relapse. "I was shot, you know," he said, poking at the keyboard.

I was about to say something clever about how a) that had been more than a year ago and he really ought to get over it or b) I was pretty sure it wouldn't be the last time he’d get shot so he might as well acclimate himself, when I was saved by a text from Beverley, whose use of emojis rendered most of her communications as incomprehensible as the Greek tomes Nightingale kept threatening to make me learn.

It took me a few minutes of parsing. "I think Beverley has found something relating to the gremlin case," I said.

Nightingale looked hopeful. "Duty calls," he said.

I put my hand on his shoulder and kept him in the seat. "I can take care of it," I assured him, keeping my constabulary charm turned up to 11. "After all, sir, you might get a relapse."

I left him to it and all but skipped down the stairs.

***

Ever since she got back into London, Beverley had been what Nightingale might describe as peripatetic, the Met would classify as itinerant, and what I'd call bloody hard to keep track of. She'd stayed on a series of couches - including mine, for a couple of memorable weekends back in the summer - and was currently subletting a flat in Westminster that probably cost more in a month than my entire yearly salary. I'd given up trying to figure out where Mama Thames and her daughters got their money; some headaches really aren't worth it.

I was just climbing the steps up to ring the bell when the door opened and she slid out, closing the door quickly behind her. You don't have to be a police officer to notice some classic avoidance behavior. "Took your time," she said crossly, giving me her requisite kiss that was equal parts promise and reproach.

"Who're you ducking?" I asked by way of response.

"None of your business," which could mean anything from one of her sisters to a one-night stand who'd overstayed their welcome. I'd learned not to be surprised at anything, and keep my mouth shut about almost everything. Our relationship was still one of mutual attraction and affection, and on the occasional evenings when I found myself in her company I was always reliably occupied, but I could sense that the novelty, at least on her part, was wearing off. What I hadn't figured out is if I was heartbroken or relieved. “Don't be in a hurry to jump in the river,” Isis had told me. I hadn't drowned, at least.

Bev looped her arm through mine and took me down the steps, making a face at the Asbo parked illegally at the curb. "Let's take my car."

I mentioned my new pet project as we drove. "You trying to put your boss on Facebook?" she said, looking amused. "You're not gonna make me friend him, or anything?"

"C'mon," I started.

"No," she said, cutting me off. "Either he'll be the sort who never uses it, so he won't care, or he'll be the sort who posts gifsets of cats or something, and nobody needs that in their timeline."

I seriously doubted Nightingale was going to be posting anything feline-related, but I kept that to myself - which was made easier by the fact that Bev took the next corner at about 70 kilometers an hour on maybe a wheel and a half. The rest of the drive was split roughly equally between Beverley telling me about the gremlin queen I was about to meet ("Be polite, or she'll suck your soul out your nostrils,") and me telling Beverley to watch the road instead of mucking about with her phone. She'd been making noises lately about working with the Folly - "not _for_ it, understand" - as some kind of riverine adjunct. I was conflicted about the idea, but a bright side to it was that I could talk Nightingale into making _her_ take the driving course at Hendon.

*

I got home three hours later, minus one (1) shoelace, three (3) buttons, and all the spare change I’d previously had in my pocket (about £1.20 all told). Nightingale was in the atrium, reading the Guardian and scratching Toby, who was sprawled on his lap. When they saw me come in, Nightingale all but shoved Toby off the sofa and assumed an innocent expression. ”It's not even _my rule_ that he's not supposed to be on the furniture," I pointed out, sitting in the chair at the table.

"What information did Miss Brook have?" Nightingale asked, folding his paper with the precision of the guilty.

"The queen of the gremlins, and apparently there's a queen of them, was insulted by the fake gargoyles that the Bancrofts had installed on their roof two months ago. She's agreed to stop the and-I-quote 'hauntings' on the condition that they remove the gargoyles and give her a tribute for the next five years."

"A tribute?" Nightingale asked.

"Apparently they're very partial to buttons and shoelaces," I said, showing where Beverley had snipped off the three (admittedly useless) buttons on my jacket's right sleeve with a pair of nail clippers. 

Nightingale's mouth twitched. “I did wonder what had happened to your shoe," he said. "I assumed you and Miss Brook had..." and here either his good breeding, his repressed upbringing, or just the sheer unprofessionalism of whatever comment he was about to make got the better of him. "At any rate, that sounds like a fair compromise. So long as they don't require a firstborn or anything of the sort."

"Do gremlins usually accept babies as payment?" I asked. As part of his despotic plan to make me actually use the Latin I was learning, Nightingale had dumped most of the Latin texts on my head when we were looking up the creature we'd seen in the house. I’d read about gremlins — I think — but I could have missed it.

"That's goblins," Nightingale said. "Good work, Peter."

"Thanks, boss," I said, toeing off both shoes and picking them up before Toby, who had a fetish for my Doc Martins, could stick his nose in one or both of them. It was a near thing. "I don't suppose Molly's got some spare buttons or shoelaces."

"Hand over the jacket," Nightingale sighed, holding out his hand. 

I twisted out of it and gave it to him. "You're not going to take it to your tailor, are you?" I asked, grinning. "Get it fitted or bespoked or whatever it is they do?"

Nightingale folded the jacket neatly across his lap. "You could do with it," he said mildly. "Your suits are hardly flattering."

"Well, I'm just a constable," I said. "Not expected to cut a swathe like I was some sort of DCI about town." I changed the subject. "How did the rest of the sign-up go? On Facebook," I clarified, off his look of confusion.

That expression cleared into one of irritation. "That program is a pox," he said decisively.

"As the poets and philosophers have said," I agreed, and waited.

He sighed and picked some imaginary lint off of my jacket. "I found it very circular," he said. "But I managed it in the end. I wish you'd told me I would need people's electronic mail addresses."

"Emails, boss," I said. "Just call them emails. It saves a lot of time."

"Yes, well, if I'm saving time for that, please allow me to waste it more often."

"Did you send me a friend request?" I asked, pulling out my phone. I don't have those notifications set up to email, because I don't need to know when Harold Pewtrunner from year eight has found me online, but it was easy enough to check on the site. Sure enough, there was a friend request from Thomas Herbert Nightingale. I had a sudden, visceral lurch in my gut when I realized this wasn’t something I could call Lesley up and tell her about. _Herbert._

"I trust now this particular tutoring session is over," Thomas Herbert Nightingale said, getting to his feet.

"We'll wait a few days for people to accept," I said warningly, "But then it's Facebook Two, Electric Boogaloo." I laughed at the expression of outrage on his face - I was pretty sure he had no idea what the reference was but he was fluent enough in Peter Grantese to get the drift.

“Good night, Peter,” was all he said, though, and as he vanished into the hallway I thought I saw him resettle my jacket on his arm with an absentminded stroke down the sleeve. I might’ve imagined it.

Molly had another shoelace; it was bright green and, I found out two weeks later, glowed in the dark.


End file.
